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Tuesday, January 21, 2014

An aging farmer and his wife make their way through a crowd
of people to get a fair view of the spectacle that is the livestock
auction. Compelled by the urging of his
wife, the farmer seeks a mule to take some of the burden off of his daily life,
to carry goods, drive his meager plow, and sow his seeds across his farm which
seems ever larger by the passing day.

At the center of the commotion lay several beasts, all equal
in size and apparent health, each driving a massive wooden arm attached to a
stone mill. Dangling before them was a
large and juicy carrot, cruelly tied to a string, a promise of the fruit of
their labor that is deceptively offered by their master to entice them to his
bidding. Their sameness drew attention
to the outsider among them. One mule
drives his mill without the carrot, with equal zeal and effort as those
transfixed by the orange lie. The farmer
approached the auctioneer.

“Sir, I have questions for you about these beasts. I have need of an animal to lift my burdens
on my farm not far from here, but I have never purchased a mule before. Which do you suggest?”

The auctioneer turned to the man, and smelling a sale made
more lucrative by the farmer’s professed ignorance, lent him his full
attention. “Why sir, you have come to
the right place! You will find any one
of these mules fit for the duties of a farm, as you can see. They will all slave away tirelessly, and for
the simple cost of seven gold pieces and a small supply of carrots, they could
be easing your work by the end of the day!”

The deal seemed quite good, and for that price the farmer
reckoned that he could make up for the cost in short time by the corresponding
increase in productivity. “But sir,”
asked the farmer, “what of the mule at the end?
He drives his mill without a carrot.
How much for that beast?”

The auctioneer let out a loud laugh. “Well if it’s that mule you have your eye on,
I have good news for you! If you’ll take
that nag off my hands I’ll give it to you free of charge!”

The farmer staggered back a step. “Free?
That mule looks every bit as healthy as the rest, and labors with equal
effort. And any man that had that mule
in his barn could get the same work done without the added cost of
carrots! Please explain yourself, as I
admit my ignorance might lead me to a foolhardy decision!”

Well,” said the auctioneer, “you said you needed a beast to
do your bidding throughout your farm, to be the master of the animal and set
him to the tasks that need doing, yes?”

“Yes, sir.” The
farmer replied.

“Well you had best look elsewhere, you foolish old man. Any mule that hasn’t a taste for carrots
can’t be made to do any work at all.
That mule has no master, and never will!”

The farmer betrayed his thoughts with a look of
distrust. “Then how sir, do you explain
that the mule drags his mill arm just as do the rest of these animals?”

The auctioneer explained that the only thing that drove the
mule to carry the mill arm was it’s own will, and that they had been trying to
sell it at auction for the better part of a year now. Sometimes choosing to allow the handlers to
harness it, sometimes stubbornly refusing to comply with even the smallest
urgings despite great efforts to entice it.
Convinced that the beast was worthless to man such as him, the farmer
bought one of the other mules. But as he
led the newly purchased beast down the beaten road to his home, he couldn’t
help but think of the carrot-less mule.
And admire it.

Friday, January 10, 2014

Hey there Scrappy! Yeah you, the shaggy one. What's with them hairs there son? What's the deal? You tryin' to be a lady? You got a giny tucked up under them dungarees? You lookin' forward to the day you sprout them big beautiful breasts? .... No? A boy you say? MHU HA HA HA! You looks like a girly, son! A fuckin' girly!

Why don't ya come inside and take a seat. We'll fix yer gender right quick. Come on now son... Come on inside, I ain'ta bitecha one bit. You are makin' an embarassment of yourself son. What you think people'r gonna say when they see's me, a respectable elder of this here fine town, chattin' it up with a lil' girly like some weirdo? You gonna ruin my reputation son! Now get in here and be barbered!

You don't want a haircut? But it's all uh,... bushy.... you know... like a girly. ...... You don't want to cut it because it's yer look? .... One Direction? What's a One Direction? .... Harry Styles? Son, whoever this Harry Styles is, she must be one hideous fuck. Now let me slap yer scalp with a classic, a Bogart or a Cary Grant.. Something witha' discernible hairline.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

We at Popular Irony have been innundated by frantic messages and email wondering what the fuck happened to us, and why we have failed to deliver quality comedic content in the past several months.

There are several answers to these questions, and all of them are complicated. Terlet opened his home to his friends following a disaster in our local area, and Hamtackle quit his job and grew a hobo beard. Again. Now a new year is upon us, and we have decided to each make post of our new year's resolutions. I, Hamtackle, will start it off.

I have two simple resolutions, the first of which is to gain fifty pounds by the end of the year. This is hard to do quickly, but I have my methods. I will post a follow-up when I complete this goal. The second is much simpler. Eradicate the hobo beard.

I took to the shears and eliminated three months of growth in one fell swoop, nearly severing my jugular in the process. I made it out ok, but the beard didn't. Here it is in all its glory.

I figured this photo didn't do it justice, so here is the beard spread out to show its full girth.

I contacted the good people at Locks Of Love to see if they were interested in a donation. They said beard hair is not suitable for wigs. I figured they weren't well-known in the merkin industry, so I tried to change their minds by demonstrating how dashing a beard wig could be.

But they didn't return my email. I can tell when I'm not wanted, so I had to find another way to dispose of this beard. Usually your whiskers just wash down the drain when you shave regularly, but a beard this pervasive is a different thing altogether. You can't just throw something this magnificent away, so I had to get creative.

And so it came to be, that my beard was given a proper viking burial. A fitting end for a noble ball of human hair. Be at peace, my friend. Be at peace…